


homeless!reader x canada: my angel

by Shinyshinx



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Other, hetalia x reader, reader x canada, reader x canon character, x Reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-07 01:58:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1114185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shinyshinx/pseuds/Shinyshinx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>homeless!reader passes out, and a passing stranger finds her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	homeless!reader x canada: my angel

**Author's Note:**

> this is old, but i hope you like it anyways.

You’re name is _____ _____. You’re hungry. You’re cold. You’ve been kicked out of yet another temporary home by the police. You’re soaked, tired, upset and miserable, the rain sliding down your neck, drenching the contents of your backpack, your pile of blankets tucked under your arm. The cloudy sky seems to be smirking at you, causing the downpour, taking delight in your frustration, the people tucked in their tidy apartments closing the windows so they don’t have to look at you, local businesses refusing to let you in, not even after you claimed to have money to buy something. They could see through your lies. You’re scum, and you don’t belong in a cultured and cosy cafe.  
This is what it’s like being homeless in New York City.  
This is normal for you.  
You meander about helplessly, squinting through the rain. You’ve just been kicked out of your three-month safe haven in the subway; a nice, quiet-ish, empty little room you’d filled with blankets and grown to like enough to call home. Apparently, people had reported hearing noises down there, too loud to be a rat. Which sucked because you were being just as quiet as you usually were. You think the noise echoes around in the hollow tunnels, just as the noisy trains do, and comes up through the little vent on the roof of your cave. You miss your cave-with the blankets spread out on the floor, pillows stacked high, stuffed animals to keep you company, a little propane stove you’d saved up for-it was a nice place for you.  
Oh well. You never managed to keep nice things for long now.  
Like your apartment.  
Your job.  
Your life.  
Nope, nice things were too good for trash like you. Collage was too much for you to consider, hell, you could barely afford to _feed_  yourself at this point. You don’t do drugs, too much money. You don’t have any friends, they left you in the end anyways. You don’t drink or smoke or streak or beg or any of the things people assume you do just because you’re homeless. You didn’t run away from home, you weren’t abused or hurt.  
You were just sad, unlucky, and alone.  
It had started out alright-you moved out of your foster parent’s home, got a job, started collage. You’d been happier then. Everything was the way it should’ve been. But then your foster parent’s had died. They didn’t leave you anything. They had kids of their own; selfish, spoiled, unkind kids. You’d never liked them much, only the people that treated you like family. But they were dead, and it seemed they never cared much at all, if they let you fall like this. Alone. You’d been depressed. Sad. Slacking off work. Ignoring collage. Not paying the rent.  
They came and took your apartment and you were done for.  
You’d scrounged up enough money for blankets and some food, water bottles and a backpack, necessary things. You’d been like this for a while now, drifting from one spot to another, not meeting anyone’s eyes to avoid getting mugged. It had worked pretty well for you. You’d only been beat up twice.  
Now, though, it seemed your luck had run out; you were wet, shivering, and without a backup home in store. You’re at the place you’d started at-alone, sad, blinking through the rain, misery coursing through your body like blood. But that misery had never been enough to stop you, drag you down-not until now. Just when you’d thought things would be okay, they weren’t again.  
You’re so tired.  
You feel tears running down your cheeks, leaving wet streaks and quickly getting swallowed by the rain. Your sweatshirt is literally dripping, and you can’t stop your trembling. You can’t feel your fingers anymore and you think you may have hypothermia. No one stops to look at you, ask you if you’re okay, just pretend not to see and hurry past. The alleys all smell and strike fear into your heart whenever you look into them; this is a bad part of town. The stores are going out of business and thug-like people stalk the shadows. You want your subway. It’s safer there. It’s warmer and not wet as long as you don’t sit under the vent.  
You want to go home.  
You’ve been walking for hours, fear keeping you on your feet, and now you’re paying the price. You’re just so tired. And you couldn’t find a good place to stay the night, not a single spot secluded and out of the rain. Even just a window ledge to keep the downpour off you would’ve been nice.  
You tremble, shake, put down your stuff to wrap the blankets around you in an attempt to get warmer. The thin fleece blankets get soaked immediately, the comforter gets weighed down by them. You’re so tired. The blankets are heavy, too heavy on your shoulders. You whimper. You just want to sleep. You want your subway, out of the rain, one of your bears to talk to until you fall asleep.  
Your knees finally give out, and you find yourself lying face-down in a puddle.  
You’re gonna drown. After all this, this is how you die? Drowning in a few inches of water? It’s so sad. You want to move, but you can’t anymore. You’re so tired, so cold. Your eyelashes seem to be frozen together. People will come and loot you later, assuming you’re dead. You want to cry and scream but you’re frozen and you can’t move, you can’t move,  _you can’t move someone please help me I’m going to die I’m going to die all alone in the rain_  
You manage to get your face out of the water before your eyes finally slide shut, exhaustion sends your face against the concrete, and you loose consciousness.  
  
******************************************************************************************  
  
You think you’re dead.  
You’re warm. You’re dry. You’re not sleeping on the ground-you’re something much too soft to be the concrete. A nice smell fills the air, and you breathe it in through your nose, your stomach rumbles and your mouth waters a little in anticipation. You must be dead. You haven’t been this comfortable in months. A warm contentedness fills you, and you let out a soft sigh through your nose before you open your eyes.  
Yes, you have to be dead.  
Because that had to be an angel you’re looking at.  
His hair is a soft blonde, long and falling into his face and violet eyes. A weird little curl sticks out from the mane awkwardly; it bounces as he moves. He has glasses that slide down his nose, and the sweetest, kindest face you’ve ever seen. You just know he has to be a sweetheart, and he hasn’t even said anything to you yet.  
He jumps once he sees you, and now you see he’s wearing an ‘I love pancakes’ apron. How adorable is that? “O-Oh, you’re awake.” His voice is so surprisingly quiet, it takes you a moment to realize he’d spoken. He gives you a shaky smile. “I didn’t mean to wake you….I was just making breakfast. Don’t mind me.” You blink, slowly registering the words. “It’s alright, you didn’t wake me. I was just waking up. But, um…..where am I, exactly?”  
He blinks at you, his answer just as soft as before. Does he always talk like that? “You’re….at my house. I fell asleep on the bus and ended up in some part of town I’d never been to before, and it was raining, and you were lying on the ground and I nearly tripped on you and I think you were asleep. I knew I couldn’t just leave you there. You were so frozen, I was worried you’d died.” He messes his hair a little, looking down shyly. “So, I managed to flag down a taxi, and it dropped me off and I carried you inside. Your blankets are all in the wash….sorry, but they were soaked. I didn’t touch any of your stuff or anything.”  
You notice he’s blushing as he stutters over his next words. “A-And….I’m really, really sorry, but your clothes….I-I had to put th-those in the w-wash, too..…”  
At this moment, you notice you’ve been wearing a pair of shorts and a red sweatshirt with a maple leaf on the front; clothes that were most certainly not yours. You feel your face heat up and quickly smother your blush. “Oh….i-it’s okay…”  
Suddenly, his words finally sink in.  
“I’m not dead…?...” But a boy saving you, who also happened to be adorable in every sense of the word? That couldn’t be real! He looks a bit confused by the words, and seems to be about to say something before his eyes widened slightly. “ _Oh merde,_  the pancakes!” He scrambles away into the kitchen, gesturing for you to come with him, and you have to stifle a giggle. Yep. Adorable in every sense of the word.  
You take a moment to collect yourself before you follow him.  _So I guess I really am alive….and….he saved me._  It’s such an odd feeling, that someone actually wanted to help you. Ever since your parents died, no one had cared.  
It was nice.  
You move to sit on the counter, watching with some amusement as he desperately flipped pancakes. Surprisingly, he manages not to burn a single one, even though he’d just been talking to you; they all look fluffy and light and perfect, not too brown or too pale. And they smell  _amazing_. Your mouth waters slightly at the sight.  
“Can some have chocolate chips in them?” You ask. He jumps-having been focused on his ‘save the pancakes’ mission-before giving you a slight smile. “Sure. The chocolate chips are on the top shelf right there. Could you grab them for me, please?”  
You do as he asks, pouring a hefty amount of chocolate chips on half of the pancakes. He hums softly as he flips a few, giving you an absent “thank you” and stacking them on a huge plate with careful precision. You watch in fascination.  
“Um, is it okay if I ask your name?” That quiet voice of his asks hesitantly. He really is cute. The whispering is a little annoying, but you could surely get used to that-the rest of him balanced out the minor flaw. You smile a little. “I’m _____ _____. Who’re you?”  
He seems to flinch a bit at the question; you immediately wonder if you said something wrong. But the look disappears and he shakes his head a little. “My name is Matthew Williams. It’s really nice to meet you, _____.” He gives you a shy smile and you once again wonder how someone could be  _so dang cute_. You return the smile, hopping off the counter. “You too, Matthew. Hey, can we eat those now?” He gives a chuckle through his nose and wanders in the direction of the dining room. “Sure thing. Grab the syrup off the counter for me, please. Have you ever tasted real Canadian syrup? It’s so much better than the gross old cheap stuff they sell here. It’s way thicker and it’s just amazing! I keep some with me in case I get hungry and stop by iHop or something.” He’s a lot more open now, humming and grinning back at you as he walks. You nab the syrup and quickly follow after him, excited.  
And infatuated.  
He was so cute, and kind, and soft and sweet and excitable…..oh god, you want to stay here with him forever, making pancakes and chatting. He’s making your heart flutter, and he’s not even doing anything. And he  _saved_  you when you were about to die…..that made him a hero. He was your hero.  
You help him with the dishes after breakfast(damn, he was right-Canadian syrup was like  _heaven_ ), trying not to blush when his hand accidentally brushed against yours. He, however, didn’t, and his entire face turned red and it made your heart throb.  
Eventually, after dishes were done and you’re lazing about on his couch, he coughs a bit and gives you a shy look. “_____….would you like to stay here? Until you get back on your feet? I have a room you could use, and I’m pretty quiet, so I won’t bug you or anything. And I don’t mind at all. It gets kinda...lonely, here by myself.” He mumbles a bit of the last part, then looks to meet your eyes. “So, um, please?”  
You gasp.  
This couldn’t be real.  
But you nod anyways, getting up to smother him in a hug, hiding your face in his shoulder and feeling tears start to run down your face as you say thank you over and over again. It takes him a moment, but you feel him gently return the hug, his hands rubbing your back slightly as he tells you it’s nothing, really, I just like you a lot, and, well...no one should be so sad and lonely, all by themselves in New York like that…” And on, and you hug him tight.  
You lost your family, your job, your apartment, your life.  
You got kicked out of the only place you’ve loved enough to call home.  
You stood crying in the rain, lost and wet and miserable and half-dead.  
But that’s all behind you now. Sure, you lost your parents; you’d never get over that. You’d been nearly killed time and time again, hit on, hurt and pushed around like trash, and you’d never forget that. But here was your chance to die and start again. You could let that life pass away, and let this new one come to you in the form of a blonde, quiet little angel, giving you this chance to let go and live again. You could rebuild what you’d lost, let it come and grow like a phoenix, live with this sweet stranger until you could fly on your own.  
This angel was offering to save your life.  
Damn straight you were going to take it.


End file.
